


Boring

by therumjournals



Category: Sherlock (BBC)
Genre: Autoerotic Asphyxiation, BBC Sherlock - Freeform, Breathplay, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-29
Updated: 2012-02-29
Packaged: 2017-11-24 00:19:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/628133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/therumjournals/pseuds/therumjournals
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock walks in on John and has an opinion.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Boring

“Boring,” Sherlock says, the first time he barges into John’s bedroom to find him lying on his back on the bedspread, head on the pillow and cock in his fist, stroking himself with a sure and steady rhythm. John doesn’t even have time to act indignant before Sherlock’s gone back out the door, so he carries on to a toe-curling finish as the sound of Sherlock’s retreating footsteps fades into silence.

“Boring,” Sherlock sighs, when he opens the bathroom door a week later to find John standing in the middle of it, pumping furiously at his dick, one foot braced on the side of the tub and three fingers shoved up his arsehole.

John starts bolting the doors.

Of course, he should have known that that would hardly stop Sherlock from picking the lock, standing smugly in the doorway, and rolling his eyes at the sight of John sprawled on the bed in a bra and high heels, jerking himself to completion with a pair of women’s underpants clutched to his nose.

“ _So_ boring,” Sherlock declares, before turning with a flourish and slamming the door on his way out.

Two days after John installs the deadbolt, Sherlock shoots the lock off the door, pushes it open to stand on the threshold. The belt’s looped around John’s neck, the other end knotted to the bedpost, and he’s leaning forward, hand flying frantically over his cock as the strap slowly cuts off his air supply. He catches Sherlock’s eye and knows exactly what he’s going to say.

So it comes as a surprise when Sherlock steps suddenly into the room, striding toward him, a knife appearing in his hand as he bends over John to slice cleanly through the leather band. John sags against his tall frame, sucks in an angry breath to tell him, “Sherlock, you can’t just-“

But the words are cut short by Sherlock’s hand over his mouth, guiding him down, pressing him into the mattress. He stares up into Sherlock’s eyes.

“Not like that,” Sherlock says, his fingers flexing, digging almost involuntarily into John’s cheek. “Like this.”

John’s eyes widen, and Sherlock nods, glancing down the length of John’s body to his cock, still ramrod stiff, the head a deep purple, the tip glistening in the dim light. Sherlock watches until John’s fingers curl around his shaft and he’s touching himself again with slow, even strokes.

Sherlock looks away, back up into John’s eyes, and he tightens his fingers against John’s mouth and nose. John takes an experimental breath, but Sherlock’s grip is airtight, seamless. Already his lungs are burning, and he speeds up his pace, increases the pressure, the friction. The key is to get the timing right, to keep going until he’s desperate to breathe, to reach the crest just as his vision starts to go dark around the edges. He knows that Sherlock is watching him, checking his eyes, his pulse, the color of his skin, for signs that it’s gone too far. Sherlock’s vigilance makes him brave, makes him want to slow down, see how long he can make this last, but the heat of Sherlock’s palm against his mouth is bringing him quickly toward the edge. He struggles because he wants to, every stifled breath throbbing in his limbs and cock, and when he comes his body shakes and ecstasy sizzles through him as long strands of semen break across his sweat-cooled skin.

Sherlock pulls his hand away slowly, and John sucks in great gulps of air. As he regains his breath, he pushes himself up on weak arms, and that’s when he notices the tent in Sherlock’s trousers. He glances up, startled, and catches Sherlock’s eye. And there must be a question on John’s face, or a plea, because Sherlock nods, shifts around to lean back on his hands, and says, “If you’d like.”

John scrambles to his knees, feeling stupidly naked next to Sherlock. Not that he has any intention of divesting Sherlock of his impeccably tailored clothes. The sight of Sherlock’s cock is all the more arresting against the dark fabric of his trousers, pale and curving gently upwards once John has freed it from the confines of the zipper.

John wraps his fingers around Sherlock’s shaft and pauses, considering. There must be some way to figure out what Sherlock likes, some method of deducing how he likes to touch himself from the way he holds his teacup, or his gun. There must be, but John’s brain is foggy with recent pleasure and he’s too impatient to dedicate sufficient time to the question. He gives a tentative stroke, and Sherlock’s fingers twitch against the coverlet. Ah. Slightly harder, and Sherlock’s fingertips press deeper into the fabric. A twist, a flick of his thumb against the crown, and Sherlock’s knuckles whiten as he grips a fistful of the blanket. It’s exhilarating, now that he knows what to look for, and John ignores his own renewed arousal as he works over Sherlock’s cock with all of the tricks he can muster.

Eventually he glances up at Sherlock’s face. He’d had no idea what to expect, whether to expect anything at all, so he’s gratified to observe the slight clenching of the jaw, a subtle flaring of the nostrils. The almost imperceptible strain as Sherlock fights to keep his eyelids from fluttering shut as he stares fixedly at the wall. Then his throat bobs, accompanied by a small choking sound, and John looks down in time to see the thick stream of jizz erupt from Sherlock’s cock to coat his still-moving fist.

John removes his hand slowly, flexing his fingers and wiping Sherlock’s spunk against the sheets. Sherlock hasn’t moved, and John realizes with some pride that he’s trying not to let on that he needs to catch his breath. But his chest rises and falls and strains against his tight button-down, giving it away, and John bites his lip to stifle a smile.

Finally Sherlock relaxes his hand in the bedspread and turns to regard John with an unreadable expression. John’s eyes flick to his lips.

“Sherlock…” He hesitates. Then – “Can I kiss you?”

After a moment, Sherlock nods. “If you must.”

He must.

John leans in, close enough to breathe Sherlock’s air and then closer, pressing their mouths together, his lips mobile, seeking. He can’t tell if Sherlock is even responding, but he doesn’t really care, and licks into his mouth to catch just the tip of his tongue.

When John pulls back, he registers a small shock at the sight of Sherlock with his cheeks flushed, his mouth still open slightly. His eyes are closed, too, but only for a second, and then they’re open again, piercing into John, who knows exactly what he’s going to say.

“Boring.”


End file.
